The Thu'um Within
by The Raven66
Summary: Ralof thought of himself as just an ordinary Nord, fighting for Skyrim as one of the Stormcloaks. However, once a mysterious individual enters his life, his true self begins to awaken. He must not only rise as the Last Dragonborn but also learn to channel his newfound, destructive powers before he lets his own dragon soul consume him. Follows main storyline but with my own spin.
1. Chapter 1

TTW

Revelations

* * *

The young man rose from his bed in the monks' sleeping quarters deep within the heart of the White Gold Tower of the Imperial Palace. He lazily slid his feet into his black clogs resting by his bedside and, in his undergarments, strode to the trunk at the foot of his bed. He shuffled through the wooden trunk, fished out a garment and slipped the well-worn grey robe over himself. After tying the rope, a rope in the same dull color as his robe, around his waist, he was dressed for the day.

He stretched his muscles, extending his arms and hands high above him, reaching towards the peak of the pillar of the White Gold Tower. He closed his deep, brown eyes, silently wishing for a break in the monotony he had endured for the past eleven years since his arrival to the Imperial Library. Before, he spent ten years in the monastery preparing for his life work with the Ancestor Moth Priests.

He did not expect to be an errand monk.

_Another mundane day_, the monk thought to himself.

He took his time getting to the Imperial Library, stopping at the banquet table in the small dining hall and munched on the bounty of grapes and sweet pastries. He had a reputation for his lack of punctuality. No sense of breaking that reputation today, or ever.

He entered the great Imperial Library. One-of-a-kind books were neatly stuffed into numerous shelves lining the perimeter of the White Gold Tower. Tables overflowed with scrolls and various parchments. The library was a tomb, according to the monk. A place to go to whither away until madness or blindness consumed the lives of those who worked there.

_Or died from old age like what my fate holds_, thought the monk as he walked through the massive library. To never really contribute to the great cause other than fetch parchments, quills, ink and sacred scrolls for the Moth Priests.

He was appointed by the Emperor to aid the Ancestor Moth Priests in whatever they needed in decoding the Elder Scrolls. As a graduate and top of his class in the Arcane University and also highly prized scholar in Kvatch, the Emperor said he possessed "great promise" and would be a "valuable asset" working in the Imperial Library for the Moth Priests.

_Humpf, valuable asset indeed_, he thought, strolling up to the Moth Priest he usually worked for.

The Priest was hunched over the writing desk, numerous pieces of parchment lay before him as he continued to scribe in the ancient, coded language of the Elder Scrolls. Only the Moth Priests possessed the gift of decoding the ancient text and translating it into common tongue.

The Priest was an old man who spent a majority of his long life deciphering Elder Scrolls, discovering events of what had come to pass and events not yet had passed, prophecies that will forever change the world. His fingers were withered and permanently ink-stained from the endless parchments he scribed over the years.

The Priest felt the presence of the monk standing to his side and placed his quill into the ink well.

"Ah, on time as usual," the Priest said, his husky voice laced with sarcasm. Even though his sight was receding, his sense of humor was still in tact.

"Yes, my Lord," the monk responded, bowing before the Moth Priest. "How may I be of service?"

The Priest gazed up at the monk, the whites of his eyes threatening to engulf the remaining blue irises the Priest once had. His vision had nearly abandoned him, caused by the knowledge obtained within the Scrolls.

"Fetch me a new Scroll, if you will," he said, pointing a gnarled finger towards the locked case in the center of the library. "I am not reading any information from this one."

The monk suppressed a deep sigh. It was considered a great offense to show any unsatisfactory gestures towards the wise Moth Priests, no matter how menial or minute the gesture might be.

"Right away, my Lord," the monk bowed again. The Priest removed a key from around his neck and handed it to the monk as well as the Elder Scroll he was reading. He accepted the key and Scroll and trudged to the center of the library to unlock the heavily magicked display case protecting the Scrolls.

The library felt dark despite the many magelights littered throughout the room. Natural light had been barricaded from the Library for fear of the suns rays would damage the tomes, ancient, fragile texts and the Elder Scrolls. The monk sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his grey sleeve. Even though the Library was kept emaculately clean, the monk still felt the air was heavily saturated in dust, triggering his allergies. The other monks always joked, saying his allergies were all in his head, claiming a bout of hypochondria wouldn't get him reassigned elsewhere and out of the Imperial Library.

The monk inserted the key into the fortified lock and twisted it clockwise. The lock clicked softly, the magicka guarding the case dispersing and the glass top swung open. Six Elder Scrolls lay within the case.

The monk grazed his fingers delicately across the silver tips of the scrolls. To be in the presence such sacred Scrolls would be considered a blessing by the Nine since only the Moth Priests and the monks selected to aid the Priests would ever lay their eyes upon the relics.

The monk carefully placed the Scroll into the case and randomly grabbed a new Elder Scroll by the silver tip and lifted it out of its case. He blinked once and when he opened his eyes, two more Elder Scrolls lay within the case. The Scrolls were mysterious like that. They showed up and disappeared whenever the Divines pleased. Elder Scrolls weren't numbered or arranged in a particular order. They just were. There could be an infinite number of them or just a handful of them. But they always changed, altering the future of Nirn, the messages would not come to pass until a Moth Priest correctly deciphered the secrets embedded within the Scrolls. What a Moth Priest revealed one day could be completely different another day.

The Scrolls were always changing.

The monk, acting as if the sudden appearance of two more Scrolls were normal, closed the lid and locked the case. The magicka barrier returned, securing the Elder Scrolls in its protective case, and the monk returned to the waiting Priest.

"My Lord," the monk said, bowing before the Priest, holding the Scroll in his extended hands.

The Priest took the Scroll from hands and bowed his head slightly. "Thank you, my boy." He pointed to the other side of the room where the clean parchments and other supplies were kept. "If you would please, fetch me three pieces of parchment."

"As you wish." The monk left to retrieve the parchment.

The Priest delicately removed the simple cord securing the Scroll and unraveled it, revealing the various black etchings and markings embedded into the parchment. Instantly he began to look over the symbols, trying to make sense of the underlying meaning, the secret the Divines wished - or didn't wish - to expose to the world at that particular time.

"The parchments you requested," spoke the monk, setting the three pieces of paper onto the desk within the Priest's reach.

The monk's eyes grazed over the Scroll before the Priest as he stepped away.

A symbol grabbed his eyes and began to move, swirl and shift from the randomized etchings of constellations from the Divine's heavens into letters.

_World-Eater._

The words were clear, bold. Legible.

The monk gasped, his eyes widened and he leaned forward, wanting to make sure his eyes were not deceiving him.

Yes. The words World-Eater were clearly there as if they were written in common tongue.

"My Lord," he gasped, pointing at the symbol on the Elder Scroll. "Do you see that?"

The Priest leaned closer towards the sacred Scroll. He narrowed his eyes, searching, seeking, trying to see what the monk could see. He flicked his wrist and called over a magelight, the light allowing him to see the Scroll more clearly.

"What does it say?" the Priest asked after a few minutes.

"World-Eater," he breathed, pointing at the symbol.

More symbols began to swirl, revealing more words.

"My Lord! More words!"

"My boy," the old Priest placed his knotted, aged hand on the monk's shoulder, and smiled broadly, his eyes sparkling in the gleam of the magelight. "The Divines have chosen you to read the Scroll.

The monk immediately was ordained a Moth Priest, charged with deciphering the Elder Scroll.

For years on end, the Priest poured over that particular Elder Scroll, writing down the words and messages embedded into the symbols that he, and only he, could read. However they symbols kept changing, morphing into different words, meanings, prophecies.

Over time, his deep, brown eyes began to fade, blending into the whites of his eyes. His fingers became dry and ink-stained from the endless writing on the miles of parchment he used to unlock the Scroll's hidden meaning. Wrinkles formed, his vision faded, his mind completely focused on his calling as that particular Elder Scroll's Moth Priest.

"My Lord, the new inkwell you requested."

The Moth Priest looked up from the parchment he was currently writing on. His once brown eyes were now completely devoid of color. His pupils merely staring out onto space.

He sat in a small, secluded room away from the main library in the Imperial Tower. One single magelight hovering overhead provided the only illumination in the dark den. He preferred the isolation. It comforted him, soothed him.

"Set it down there," he said, pointing a bony, aged finger towards the top of the desk. The monk did as he was told before being shooed away by the old man to aid another Priest.

The Moth Priest wrote a few more words on the parchment and placed the quill in the inkwell. He leaned back in his chair, cracking the stiff bones in his spine. He lifted his arms up over his head and stretched his muscles, extending his hands upward towards the top of the pillar of the White Gold Tower.

Finally, it was completed.

Everyday for the past seventy-two years, he had done nothing but decipher the Elder Scroll.

And now he was done. The day of Ultimate Reading had finally come to pass.

He blew on the drying ink on the last piece of parchment and placed it on the large stack of decoded papers.

A man dressed in the same subdued, grey robes approached the Priest. "How is the translation coming?" asked the Elder Ancestor Moth Priest quietly, knowing what this particular day meant to the man sitting before him.

"It is finished, Elder Priest," said the Moth Priest.

It was bittersweet to be finished. Sweet because of the honor it was to be the only individual chosen to translate that particular Elder Scroll. Bitter because of the prophecy that was encoded. Prophecies were not generally pleasant. They spoke of doom, misfortune, and death unless mankind altered the events for told in the Scroll. Yet, no Elder Scroll had been wrong or its prophecy avoided.

The events always happened, already written in history.

"And what does the Elder Scroll foretell?"

"This," he handed the Elder Priest the last piece of parchment he wrote from the stack of papers.

The Elder Moth Priest accepted the paper carefully in his hands, furrowing his brows at the Priest. "Why can't you read it to me yourself?"

"I would," he responded, turning towards the Elder Priest, his eyes now completely empty of color other than white. "But I am blind, Elder Priest. This time, forever."

He waved his hand, extinguishing his magelight, forever enveloping him in darkness.

* * *

_When war amongst brethren plague the ancient lands,_

_Breathing life into the World-Eater and his children._

_A soul of the past will shape the future,_

_Aiding in the rise of the Last Dragonborn,_

_Thus uniting the gods in a single soul _

_To stand before one of their own._

* * *

She heard a loud thud, followed by rattling and what sounded like rocks and rubble tumbling down to the earth. Then silence. The thud returned a few seconds later and then another thud and another.

_What on Nirn was that?_

She rose to her feet with ease and grace. Surprising since she had never used her slender legs before. Not that she could recall.

Although utter darkness engulfed her, she could see faint outlines of minute shades of color mixed with light. The voices on the other side were muffled slightly, yet she could understand their words.

They were there for her.

The thudding continued for several hours. The air reeked like magicka. Thick and tangy with a slight metallic taste. The telltale signs of mages at work.

She knew they weren't there to hurt her. She felt their intentions: pure and true. They needed her, however, she couldn't remember why.

_Trust in them._

The three words echoed in her mind, comforting her and quelling her uncertainty.

Faint flickers of light began to pour from the small gaps chipping away along the stone wall, the rocks beginning to crumble before her, revealing a gaping hole and freeing her from her isolated prison. As the dust settled, four young, mysterious men dressed in grey, hooded robes stood before her, standing out against the blackened night sky behind them. She shielded her eyes from the flames dancing brilliantly from torches two of the men held.

Fire. She couldn't remember the last time she saw the sacred element, yet she was instantly drawn to it like it was tied to her soul.

_Diinlokah_, one of the men Voiced to her mind in a language familiar to her, his voice full of confidence and power. _We come to free you_.

_I know_, she Voiced back, speaking to him with her mind. _Who are you?_

_We are disciples of the Greybeards._ He motioned her to step out from the cave she spent eras in secluded slumber. _Come. It is time for your training._

She obeyed willingly, careening over large boulders and rocks littering the ground of the cave opening and out into the vast world beyond.

_Training?_

The hooded man smiled slightly and bowed his head. _Yes, it is time for you awaken and fulfill your destiny._

* * *

-TTW-

So I began this story almost two years ago under the pen name Lady Luna83. I got so caught up with life and didn't have a lot of time dedicated to writing the original The Thu'um Within fanfic. I tried to write whenever I could on my iPhone but wouldn't post any of the chapters. Rather than abandon the story, I decided to break the story up into two separate stories. The Thu'um Within will continue to follow the main storyline of TESV: Skyrim, but it will have my own twist on things so it will be more interesting. I'm happy to be back and will continue working on this fanfic. Thank you for reading and for your support.

-The Raven66 (formerly Lady Luna83)


	2. Chapter 2

TTW

He Returns

* * *

Ralof leaned his head back against the back of the bench, his head bouncing along the inside of the wagon. He knew it was a matter of time before he was in this situation, before he was caught.

A horse neighed. Its hooves clicked and clacked loudly against the dirt and gravel path as it pulled the prisoners' wagon behind it. Several guards on horseback flanked the wagon sides eager to smack an unsuspecting prisoner with the flat part of his sword just because they could. Because they, the guards, were Imperials and they, the prisoners, were Nords.

He spent the last seven years fighting along side the Stormcloaks, spreading the idea of a country, of Skyrim, separated from the corrupted Imperial Empire. He would die for a free Skyrim, to prove she could thrive without the involvement of foreign rule. And those fetching elves.

He looked down to his hands, which were bound with thick cord, preventing him from effectively grabbing a sword, dagger or any kind of weapon and using it against the guards. Ralof fumbled with the knots as he struggled to free his wrists. The cord scraped harshly against his skin creating red, raw markings. He exhaled in defeat, giving up his futile efforts and threw his head back against the wagon.

How he wished for a tankard of mead at that moment.

Ralof's grey-blue eyes glanced over to the man across the wagon from him. Ulfric Stormcloak, his commander and leader of the Stormcloaks, was also caught.

The man looked as bruised and battered as Ralof did. His matted blond hair was caked with dirt, sweat and blood. His eyes closed and his torso hunched forward, body bobbing along as the wagon rolled over rocks and potholes dotting throughout the bumpy road. Because Ulfric possessed the Thu'um, an ancient form of Nord magicka very few could master, the damn Imperials took extra precautions ensuring he did not escape - doubled the binds around his wrists and gagged him, preventing him from Shouting the fetchers to Oblivion.

The Imperial Army lured their squad into a trap. They promised a truce between the two armies, wanting to end the years of hatred and bloodshed that plagued the minds of Stormcloaks and Legionaries. Ralof shook his head as he replayed the chain of events through his mind. He should have known it was a lie. Imperials lie. They do whatever is necessary to get what they want. Steal. Cheat. Murder. Whatever was necessary.

Ralof knew better than trust an Imperial.

Ulfric's head sagged against the side of the bench, his shaggy blond hair obscuring his face. Ralof knew his commander was exhausted. Hell, they all were. The constant fighting, battle planning, recruiting and organizing hasty funerals for their fallen brothers was tiring. How he wished he could return to simple life in Riverwood where he would work a simple job for simple pay. A life which didn't involve killing or fighting. A life where he could chase all the pretty girlies in hopes of snagging one to call his very own. Start a family. Own his own lumber business. Live his happily ever after like all the children storybooks illustrated.

Ralof's older sister, Gerdur, his last remaining family, was still in Riverwood.

"Don't you get caught up in that Ulfric nonsense," Gerdur said to him all those years ago. "The Stormcloaks are nothing but trouble."

Of course he ignored her, knowing the life of a heroic warrior appealed to him. That and he wanted the damn Imperials out of his country. Them and the elves. Damn those elves.

With nothing but a sword in hand, Ralof would fight alongside his Nord brothers with Ulfric leading at the helm and force the Empire out.

Now look at him. His wrists securely bound, weaponless and stuck on a wagon like a cow ready for slaughter. He was heading east to Helgen to await trial for his "crimes against the Empire." Of course that's what the Imperials would call his actions. Crimes. Not courageous, brave, heroic or inspirational. They said he murdered. Bah! What about the hundreds of Stormcloaks and Skyrim citizens they killed? Young men and women; some men barely the age of sixteen. That's not murder? Of course not. They claimed they were protecting the Empire and that ratty man, Emperor Titus Meade II, all warm and snug on his cushy throne in Cyrodiil - a country that had no business in being involved in Skyrim's affairs.

Imperials lie.

"Let me go," pleaded the grungy man to Ralof's left. "Please. I'm not a Stormcloak. I'm innocent."

"Shut it!" bellowed an Imperial guard on horseback. He wacked the flat part of his sword against the wooden wagon cart, hoping the gesture would silence the Nord man. "You were caught stealing a horse. Red handed no less."

"I wasn't stealing!"

"Stealing a horse is stealing from the Empire, thief. You will pay for your crimes."

The man began to grow even more hysterical, his green eyes widen. He must have realized how he would pay for his crime - with his head. The guards laughed heartily as the thief began to whimper and cower in the corner of the wagon. Ralof would have found the sight amusing in any other situation. However, he too faced the same fate as the horse thief. Any crime against the Empire resulted in losing one's head. A horrible way to go if you asked him.

At least it was quick. Painful only for a split second. Then darkness.

Ralof looked back to Ulfric. How he hated seeing his commander like that - battered and broken. Ralof's honor cracked. He failed Ulfric, his country. So many Stormcloaks died today. Too many. The Imperials ambushed them, drove their swords through the Stormcloaks' hearts. The Stormcloaks fought courageously and died with honor. The Legionnaires wouldn't even let him or Ulfric give proper burial to the bodies. "Leave them for the wolves to dine on," joked one Imperial. "Nay, the wolves deserve better than rotten meat like that," responded another.

"Ulfric," Ralof said quietly, trying not to raise the guards' attention.

Ulfric responded by lifting his head, his empty blue eyes glazed over as his eyes met Ralof's. He looked defeated. After years of fighting the Imperial Legion and those fetching High Elves from the Aldmeri Dominion and Thalmor, Ulfric was giving up. Ralof could read it in his eyes. He was done. Ralof thanked the Nine he would be able to die along side his commander. An honorable death. Sovengard's golden gates would soon open for them, welcoming them to the afterlife.

Two of the guards began to shout excitedly and kicked the flanks of their horses causing them to gallop ahead. Ralof raised his head towards the commotion to get a better view of what was going on. Something clearly surprised the guards.

The Imperials disappeared behind a bend in the road, the dense fir trees and juniper shrubs concealing what lay beyond. More shouting. The clang of metal against metal reverberated through the trees. The Imperial guard steering the wagon shouted a command and snapped the horse's reigns, jerking the wagon forward at a quicker pace and around the bend.

As the wagon approached, Ralof could see the two guards holding a small, human body forcefully to the ground. Ralof strained to see more of the poor soul the guards captured. The person wore a grey, hooded cloak concealing his face. Looked like their beheading club was about to gain another member.

The wagon came to a rolling stop before the guards and the new prisoner. The guards hefted the body up to his feet and bound his hands tightly in cord before dragging him towards the wagon, and with as little grace as possible, tossed the body blithely onto the hard wooden bench across from Ralof.

"That teaches you from striking at the Empire's Army," spat the Imperial Guard, sheathing the hooded man's sword into his own holster. "Your head will roll for your crimes." The guard struck the man in the head with his sword's hilt. Ralof winced at his actions, knowing firsthand the pain of such a blow to the head.

The man sat up against the back of the wagon, his head leaning forward, the cloak's hood shadowing his face.

"That looked like quite a beating," said Ralof. "Are you alright?"

The man ignored him, responding only by lifting his bound hands under his hood to check the spot where the sword hilt struck. He pulled his hands away, revealing thick, dark blood on his fingertips. Anger welled up inside of Ralof. Had the Imperials no honor? Striking a man clearly incapacitated was an unforgiving act.

The man sighed and leaned forward again, clearly not in the mood to talk.

The bumpy, dirt path gave away to smooth, cobbled roads, indicating they were approaching Helgen. The dreary stronghold was as boring and unappealing as Ralof remembered. Dirty stone walls surrounded the city. The clouds never moved, fixing themselves over Helgen and blanketing the town in grey and dampness. It lacked the freshness and openness of Riverwood that Ralof loved.

Citizens whispered to one another staring, pointing at the prisoners. Some giggled. Others shook their heads in disgust. Ralof heard faint murmurs of "rebels", "criminals" and "disgrace to Skyrim" echoing throughout the growing crowd along the city streets.

The horse and wagon came to a stop and immediately several Imperials surrounded the prisoners and began shouting for them to dismount. Obeying their commands, one by one each of the prisoners jumped from the back of the wagon and onto the cobbled streets of Helgen's center city commons.

"Ralof of Riverwood," an Imperial guard stated, sounding bored and obvious he'd rather be anywhere else.

Ralof stepped forward. He knew this guard. Hadvar. Ralof's faced him several times in battle. Years ago he used to see him on the streets of Riverwood. Hadvar's father worked as the town's blacksmith. Ralof even shared several tankards of mead with him at the local Sleeping Giant Inn. Now this man was sentencing him to die. Funny how life worked sometimes.

Hadvar pointed with his charcoal pencil. "Go over there with the other prisoners." His voice was devoid of any friendliness he once had towards Ralof.

Hadvar glanced up, his eyes wide in surprise. "Wait a minute. You're Ulfric Stormcloak."

"He goes to the block, Hadvar," interrupted the female Imperial Captain as she walked up to the guard. "For your crimes against the Empire, nothing would please me more than to see your head roll."

Helgen's citizens cheered victoriously as both Ulfric and Ralof were ushered towards the far end of the city square. "Die, traitors!" "May the Divines smite you!" Several citizens even spit at the two Stormcloaks.

If only they knew how many of their Nord brethren died for them, for Skyrim, thought Ralof as he glanced around at the angry faces of Helgen's citizens. Yet, they continue to hate us.

"I don't deserve to be here!" shouted the horse thief. He was panting heavily as panic took over his senses. He knew he was facing death and decided to take his chances and attempt to escape. He didn't make it very far. After he took off in a dead sprint down the cobble streets, the Imperial archers shot him full of arrows. He crumbled to the ground face first and remained motionless, indicating he died instantly.

Hadvar turned to the cloaked man. "You're not on my list. What's your name?"

"Send him to the block with the others," said the female captain impatiently. "He shall share the same fate as everyone else since he committed crimes against the Empire."

Hadvar motioned with his pencil for the man to move, his eyes appeared almost apologetic. Almost.

A circle of death. That's what Ralof thought it felt like as the prisoners stood in a circle waiting for their fates to be delivered by the large man who was leaning against a massive, silver ax.

A prisoner was shoved to the beheading block. The Imperial guard kicked his legs out from under him, dropping the prisoner to his knees. The guard then slammed the prisoner's head onto the hard, blood-stained stone, the executioner looming overhead with the ax ready in his hands.

"Today is a good day to die," said Ralof proudly as he gazed up at the sky. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, savoring the little time he had left to live. How he wished he could spend his last minutes on Nirn back in Riverwood.

The executioner brought down the silver ax onto the neck of a prisoner. So clean. So...dead. The headless body slumped to the ground and the head tumbled a few feet along the cobbled street before rolling to a stop.

The gruesome sight angered Ralof.

"I am happy we will die for our cause. For our rebellion." Ralof raised his voice, ensuring the surrounding guards heard him. "You Imperials will never take Skyrim from the Nords nor will you take Sovngarde from me."

Several prisoners roared in agreement, cheering for the words they all felt in their hearts.

"Silence!" shouted the captain as she slammed the hilt of her sword into Ralof's back. Ralof nearly doubled over from the blow but remained on his feet. He wouldn't give those damn Imperials the satisfaction to fall before them.

A thundering roar in the distance caught Ralof's attention immediately. He snapped his head towards the sky. What was that? he thought. He glanced to the hooded man. He must have heard the same noise for his head was also tilted upwards, scanning the skies above.

"Move this one to the block," said the captain as she motioned to the hooded male.

The guards grabbed the man by the arms, his head still tilted upwards towards the skies above, and shoved him towards the block. One guard grabbed the hood's material and yanked backwards. Ralof sucked in a breath and several people gasped. The hooded man was not a man at all, but a young female Nord with the brightest white hair Ralof had ever seen. Hair like that was unheard of amongst Nords. Even her eyes – brilliant blue, which shone brightly like a polished, untarnished sapphires - were an anomaly. The guards struggled to not gape or stare at the woman as they continued to prepare her for execution.

Another roar bellowed in the distance. This time the sound was closer. Whatever it was, it was big and moving towards them.

"What is that?" asked one of the guards looking up. His voice shook. He was afraid.

"He comes!" spoke the white haired woman quietly, yet still loud enough for Ralof to hear. She smiled, clearly amused from the confused and panicked expressions on the guards' faces.

"Quit stalling," the captain yelled. "I have better things to do than spend my afternoon around the people of this pathetic country. Get her head on that block!"

The guard kicked the woman at the back of the knees, causing her to drop to the ground. He pushed her head down to the block. Her bright green eyes still looked upwards to the sky as if searching for something. Expecting something. A small smirk spread across her lips. She knew something no one else knew.

The executioner raised his mighty ax high over his head, readying himself to deliver the deathblow.

The roar returned. This time directly over the city. The clouds shielded whatever the creature or thing was. Ralof felt his stomach sink. Time seemed to slow down, a premonition of things to come.

Then the screaming started as Helgen's citizens pointed towards the heavens.

The executioner lowered his ax as his eyes lifted upwards, his eyes wide in shock and mouth dropped open. The Imperial guards began barking commands and racing around the city square. Ralof didn't look up to the skies like everyone else. Instead he locked his eyes on the strange female, her head still resting on the chopping block.

And laughing. The snowy haired woman was laughing.

* * *

-TTW-


End file.
